


A Fish Out of Water

by isasolan



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Arafinwion bias, Court Politics, Fluff without Plot, Gen, Growing up in Tirion, POV Child, Warning: Quenya names, Warning: Telerin bias, Years of the Trees, okay some plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:19:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isasolan/pseuds/isasolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A very young Angrod struggles to adjust to life in Tirion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Angaráto is the equivalent of a six years old. His PoV is, naturally, biased and limited in understanding of what is going on around him. Approximately five YT are supposed to pass between the first and the last chapter, so there is a slight gap between each one unless otherwise indicated. 
> 
> I am using "Lindar" and "Lindarin" instead of "Teleri" and "Telerin" because I believe Teleri is a vaguely pejorative name for the third kindred (HoME XI), and chose to use what they called themselves.
> 
> Apologies about all the Quenya names, I cannot deal with Sindarin translations in Aman settings.

Angaráto was going to meet his uncle Fëanáro that day. He had never seen him before, because Fëanáro was in the North when they moved to Tirion at the start of the season. He was supposed to wait for his father in the gardens, but Arafinwë was not coming and Angaráto was bored.

 

He crouched to look at a fish in the bottom of the pond, an old fish of many colours. He tried to reach for it but his arms were not long enough. He thought of his brother, tall and slender Findaráto. He could probably reach. But Angaráto was too small and if he really wanted to touch the fish, he would have to step into the pond. It was shallow, and Angaráto was a good swimmer, but the cumbersome robes would not let him move quickly enough.

 

The boy hated robes, but his father had told him this was how one dressed in Tirion. Angaráto’s grandfather was King after all. The child did not like Tirion, either. He had been born by the sea and had never been parted from it until Tirion. He felt uneasy walking on cobbled streets rather than on sand and the tall towers did not let him see the skies. This pond in a forgotten corner of the garden was the closest he had been to a water body since their arrival.

 

Angaráto jumped in with a loud splash. The fish was startled, of course, and retreated behind some rocks. Quite unexpectedly, the robes were not long enough to hinder him, and the boy waddled through the mud as swiftly as possible. He could feel a viscous, unpleasant substance under his toes, but it did not stop him from crossing the pond.

 

Angaráto reached out to stroke the fish, whispering the words every boy learnt from Ossë when they were old enough. The fish heard the incantation and did not resist the petting, so the boy brought his other arm under the water to grab the slippery creature with both hands. He had strong hands, strong as iron, or so he had been told. The fish accepted the embrace but squirmed out of his grasp eventually and scurried away to the other side of his pond. The child followed it eagerly, laughing and splashing about.

 

“Angaráto!”

 

The boy froze when he heard his father’s voice. He turned around to face him, biting his lip a little, because Arafinwë sounded angry, and this was unusual enough for Angaráto to realise jumping in the pond had been a bad idea.

 

“What are you doing in that pond?” his father asked sternly.

 

He shook his head disapprovingly and it made the circlet he wore slide slightly over his locks. His hair was golden, like Angaráto’s, but the child had never seen him wearing a circlet until they moved to Tirion.

 

“There was a fish...” Angaráto explained sheepishly, feeling very small under Arafinwë’s disapproving stare. He stepped out of the water, his soaked robes dripping on the grass.

 

“I told you we are to meet your uncle Fëanáro today. How am I to take you to him when you are covered in mud?”

 

It was confusing. Angaráto had never been told playing in ponds was not allowed. In Aqualondë he played with his cousins on the sand, in ponds and puddles that the sea left on the shores. More often than not they ended up covered in algae and other seaweeds. It had never mattered before. No one had scolded him about it. He started crying then, hating this new place with so many unknown rules.

 

Arafinwë, although still visibly displeased, softened a little when he saw his tears. “Come now, no need to cry. We will wash you inside,” he told him and put a hand on his shoulder, but Angaráto jerked away.

 

“When are we going home? I don’t like it here,” he cried.

 

“This is our home now...” Arafinwë said gently, but it only made the child cry harder.

 

“How can it be home? Where is the sea? Where are the swans? Why have you brought us here?”

 

Arafinwë knelt to be at eye-level with his son. His eyes were kind and concerned, and Angaráto felt a little less lost. “We have talked about this before, do you not remember? Your brother needs to study, and the books he will use may only be read in Tirion."

 

“I hate Tirion! Everything is ugly, and dry, and why is it so bright here?”

 

His father looked genuinely surprised. “Of course... You have not seen the Trees. We will ride together later, and I will show you what makes Tirion so bright. Listen, my little one,” Arafinwë said and dropped his voice to a whisper, “I too dislike Tirion, and would prefer to be in Alqualondë. But your grandfather would feel hurt if he knew this. We may dislike it together, but we must keep it a secret. Could you do that?”

 

Angaráto nodded numbly. Knowing his father also felt uneasy in Tirion did not lessen his grief, but it did make him feel less out of place. He let himself be led through the gardens, along the long alleys bordered by perfectly straight rows of trees he did not know. The Palace was much bigger than his other grandfather’s, and the boy could not yet walk about without losing his way.

 

Some Elves offered their help to Arafinwë when they saw Angaráto’s muddy robes, volunteering to bring towels, and clean clothes, but his father dismissed them with a smile. There were many such helpers in the Palace, but he never requested anything of them. The boy had asked him why, once, and his father had said that they could manage very well on their own. So the five of them (his mother and father, Findaráto, Angaráto and the little brother who was still unnamed) lived in the Southern Wing of the castle with no attendants. This, at least, was very much like Alqualondë.

 

Arafinwë undressed him and drew a bath. The mud was not thick, so there was no need to scrub it off. Two full jugs of clean water were more than enough to wash all of it off. His father did not let him play in the bathtub, because they were already late to meet uncle Fëanáro.

 

“What’s uncle Fëanáro like?” Angaráto asked as his father combed his wet hair, “Does he look like you?”

 

“He does not,” Arafinwë answered after a pause. The boy tried to see why he sounded so strange, but his father made him keep his head down so he could finish the braids.

 

“Why not? Uncle Nolofinwë  looks like you... but with black hair.”

 

“It is a long and sad story that I will tell you when you are older. But it matters not whether his face looks like mine or not. It is his fëa you must look at. There you might find some resemblance with me, or at least with your grandfather. He is my brother, after all. Now that he has returned from the North you may play with your cousins.”

 

“More cousins?”

 

The boy grimaced. He did not like Turukáno, mainly because Findaráto spent all his free time with him and had forgotten all about his little brother. Arafinwë laughed softly and stepped back to look at his attire.

 

“Well then, you are ready. One last thing, however. You must remember to speak in Ñoldorin Quenya with your uncle and cousins.”

 

Only then did Angaráto realise that his father had switched languages and was speaking in the tongue of Tirion. The boy could speak it, since it was not too different from Lindarin, but it was not the language he had learnt first and often found it difficult to remember the other rules.

 

“I’ll forget me not,” he said hesitantly, knowing he was using the constructions of the other language but unsure what the correct version was.

 

“‘ _I will not forget_ ’,“ Arafinwë corrected softly and sighed. “It will do. Come. We must not make him wait.”

 

His father took him by the hand to lead him to a side of the palace the boy had never been to before. It was brighter, and emptier, and in some rooms it looked as if the walls had been torn down to make the rooms larger. It smelled of fire, like something had burnt. Elves ran from one end to another, carrying intriguing objects and strange tools.

 

Arafinwë pushed a door open, and they walked into a small study where the light was brighter than anywhere else. In a desk by the window, a dark-haired Elf was seated, scribbling on a parchment. He looked up when he heard them. His eyes were like the fire.

 

“Ingalaurë,” he said slowly as he folded the parchment. He rose and walked around the desk to meet them. It was the first time Angaráto heard anyone calling his father by his mother-name.

 

“Well met, brother,” Arafinwë said in a cheerful voice that sounded a bit odd to Angaráto’s ears.

 

His father had embraced Uncle Nolofinwë when they had first arrived from Alqualondë, a long, tight hug after which they had both laughed. Uncle Fëanáro did not laugh, and merely held Arafinwë’s hands in his, very briefly.

 

“This is my second son, Angaráto.” Arafinwë gestured towards the boy. Fëanáro looked down at him with his blazing grey eyes. Angaráto cowered a little, and hid behind Arafinwë’s robes. “No need to be shy, child,” his father said, and nudged him forward.

 

“Well met, Angaráto.” Fëanáro’s voice was also like fire, warm and disquieting.

 

“Well met, Uncle,” the boy mumbled when Arafinwë nudged him again, but averted his eyes.  

 

"Why have you named him after iron? A most unusual choice for you, with your scarce love for metals," Fëanáro asked curiously. Angaráto slid behind Arafinwë again, disliking to be the centre of attention.

 

"He is strong for his age," his father said softly and stroked the boy's golden hair. "And he is also very stubborn."

 

“The choice still surprises me. But I hear a third son has been added to your House?”

 

Fëanáro turned back to his brother, no longer minding Angaráto. He gestured for him to sit on the chairs facing his desk.

 

“Yes, little Aráto for now. I have yet to give him a fitting name. He is still so young,” Arafinwë said fondly.

 

He sat on the largest chair, and Angaráto could have sat on the other, but he chose to climb on his father’s lap and settle there. Arafinwë was surprised, but soon shifted his legs to make room for him.

 

“Another Aráto? Then to all three sons you have given Telerin names?”

 

“Why, of course. My wife is of the Lindar,” Arafinwë replied and Angaráto wriggled a little when he felt him tense under him. He had said Lindar, and not Teleri like uncle Fëanáro. The boy was not sure what the difference was.

 

"Yet you are Ñoldo, and this you relish in forgetting, my dear Ingalaurë. Or what is it that they call you in Olwë's lands?"

 

"Oh, it matters not what they call me," Arafinwë said with a short laugh. Angaráto knew what his father was called in Lindarin, but not why he would not tell Uncle Fëanáro. "Surely you did not ask to see us to discuss the names I choose for my sons?"

 

"Nay." Fëanáro’s eyes became more focused. He leaned closer, his gaze resting on the young boy. "My son Morifinwë is close in age to your son here. I have set aside an hour each day for lessons on metallurgy. I will teach him myself. I thought you might be interested in knowing whether your Angaráto's strength is of any use in the forges. Fear not, the books are written for young children, and I have taught all my sons with them."

 

"Ah," Arafinwë said slowly, almost hesitantly. Angaráto turned to see him. His father's cheeks had coloured slightly. "This may prove impossible, for my son has not yet learnt his letters."

 

"A child of sixteen, and you have not taught him to read?"

 

Uncle Fëanáro sounded baffled and looked over Angaráto with a severe expression. The boy made himself smaller in his father's lap, unsure whether this was his fault, or not.

 

"Things are slightly... different in Alqualondë, brother. Boys are taught to swim and sing and are largely left to their own devices until they turn twenty, or five and twenty."

 

"You are in Tirion now," Fëanáro said slowly.

 

"Yes, indeed. Perhaps you are right," Arafinwë conceded, and held Angaráto tighter, resting his chin on the boy's head.

 

"Will you not teach him? I could find the time to do it, if you wish. Or you could send him to me once he has learnt to read."

 

Angaráto glanced up at his father. Arafinwë met his gaze with a small smile. His eyes were kind, like always. He was right, Uncle Fëanáro was nothing like him.

 

"What do you say, Angaráto? Would you like to study with your uncle?"

 

The boy looked at Fëanáro again. His uncle was unsmiling.

 

"No," Angaráto said firmly. "His eyes would burn me."

 

He realised how unkind his words sounded only after he had spoken them. Fëanáro’s lips twisted into a scowl, but then let out a strange laugh.

 

“Your son may be wiser than we thought,” he said, and it was difficult to grasp whether he was offended or amused.

 

Now aware of his blunder and fearing having upset his father, Angaráto looked up at him hesitantly. If Arafinwë was displeased, his face did not show it. His features were as calm as ever, and when the boy tried to read him he could not discern any strong emotions, save only a hint of worry, perhaps.

 

“We thank you for your kind offer, brother,” he said evenly and made Angaráto slide off his lap. He took his son’s hand when he rose.

 

“But you will send him, of course?” Fëanáro asked with a frown as he stood too.

 

“You heard the boy. His words were harsh, and for this I apologise on his behalf, but he does not want to study with you.”

 

“He is a boy of sixteen! How can he possibly know what he wants?”

 

“Precisely, he is a boy of sixteen. He is a child and he is afraid of you. I will not have him unhappy. I will teach him to read, and he will learn whatever craft he wishes to learn when he shows an interest, and with the tutors he chooses.”

 

Something in his father’s voice reminded him of steel. And Angaráto was afraid of Fëanáro. He wished with some sadness he could be as brave as Findaráto.

 

“Then you are a deeper fool than I thought,” Fëanáro said, shaking his head angrily.

 

“Now, now. No need to quarrel over this, brother. Your son Morifinwë is more than welcome to come play with Angaráto in our wing of the Palace, whenever you free him from his studies.”

 

“I most certainly will not send him,” Fëanáro grumbled with contempt.

 

“What a pity,” was Arafinwë’s carefully neutral reply, and he did not wait for Fëanáro to dismiss them. He turned away from him and pulled his son along.

 

The boy did not really want to look, but something made him turn his head back to see his uncle one last time. Fëanáro’s fiery eyes were on him, and yet in his anger he still managed to look pensive. Angaráto felt his heart beating in his throat unpleasantly when their eyes locked. He hurried after his father, only too happy to get away from him.

 

“You are not too young to learn some diplomacy, Angaráto,” Arafinwë told him once they were back to the nice, comforting safety of their side of the Palace. He made his son sit on some cushions on the floor, like in Alqualondë. “You must always say what is in your heart. But do try to think a little before you speak, and whether the other person might feel offended by what you tell them.”

 

“But it was true, his eyes did burn,” the boy said, covering his own eyes. Arafinwë took his hands gently and removed them from his face.

 

“I know he can be intimidating, and you were right to refuse if you did not want to study with him. But how you said it was unkind for him. Remember next time.”

 

“I will,” Angaráto said sheepishly. “Is he very angry at me?”

 

“Possibly, but do not let that trouble you. He is often angry, and in this case I think he is rather angry at me,” Arafinwë said with a smile. “Let us forget about Fëanáro for now and go change into riding breeches.”

 

Angaráto’s face lit up. “Where are we going? Are we going home?”

 

Arafinwë hesitated, as if about to correct him, but instead just said: “No, not home, little one. I am taking you to see the Trees.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I much prefer Ingalaurë than Ingoldo as Finarfin's mother-name as I feel it describes him much better, so I used it. It amuses me to imagine Fëanor refused to call his brothers by their -finwë names unless strictly unavoidable.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goldorin= Ñoldorin Quenya

Fëanáro did send Morifinwë in the end, many months later.

 

He was announced in Arafinwë’s study on the fourth hour of Laurelin, when Angaráto was drawing letters with his father. Arafinwë had started the lessons soon after the visit to Fëanáro. The boy loved using the coloured ink pots, and learnt quickly, but would have much rather drawn pictures instead of letters. He always ended up doing it on the empty sides of the parchments, when Arafinwë was not looking. Swans. Shells. Fish. His father disapproved at first, but then had given him a book full of blank pages to draw whatever he wished, as long as it was not during the lessons.

 

Morifinwë, dressed in a red robe, stood stiffly by the door until Arafinwë called him closer. His hair was dark and fell uncombed upon his face. His lips were set in a tight scowl, as if he were displeased.

 

“Ah, welcome, Morifinwë. Do come in,” Arafinwë beckoned with a gentle smile.

 

“Carnistir,” the child said a little gruffly. “Call me Carnistir.”

 

Angaráto giggled. Red-faced? Who would want to be addressed by such a name? His cousin’s face was indeed ruddy, and it looked even stranger with his red robes. A stern look from his father silenced him.

 

“You wish to be known by your mother-name? Very well, Carnistir. I welcome you and I am glad to see you have finally come. This is your cousin Angaráto.”

 

Carnistir’s glance was somewhat hostile. The golden-haired child squirmed in his chair as an unpleasant feeling crept over him. Neither boy said ‘well met’, as court manners required, but Arafinwë did not make them, either.

 

“You may play together in the gardens,” he said, folding the parchments he had been using to teach Angaráto. The boy hesitated, moved by an unexpected desire to continue writing and began forming a protest, but his father took away his quill before he could react.

 

He rose unhappily and stood by his cousin. Carnistir was as tall as he was. They stared at one another, silently, and Angaráto felt tempted to tell his father to send the cousin back. He did not really want to play with him. The unpleasantness he felt in his fëa was too strong. He turned to look at Arafinwë, but found that he was no longer in the room. Di-plo-ma-cy, he reminded himself and sighed.

 

“Come,” he told Carnistir and stepped outside in the gardens, hoping he would follow.

 

What game could they play? He glanced at his cousin, noting he did not look athletic, or graceful. No ball games nor dancing, then. Most of his toys were scattered around the grounds and he looked left and right for one suitable, but found none.

 

After the pond incident the day he had met Fëanáro, Arafinwë had asked the builders to make a pond for his son, cleaner and closer to their wing. Angaráto had spent long hours watching them, asking them questions and learning from them. Many fish had been brought to live in it, and while it was not the sea, it was the boy's favourite spot when it was warm enough to swim.

 

“ _Wanna look to the pond my dad is given me_?” he suggested eagerly when he realised they were close enough.

 

“Why do you speak so queerly?” Carnistir said with a frown. “I do not understand a word you said.”

 

“Forgive me,” Angaráto said hastily as he switched to Goldorin and pronounced the syllables slowly and clearly. “I was speaking the tongue of my mother’s people.”

 

“Ah, yes. Your mother is one of the Teleri. Is it true that they do nothing but sail without purpose and sing idly on the beach?”

 

Angaráto hesitated. It was true that they sailed and sang, but the way Carnistir had phrased it made it sound shameful and demeaning in a way he did not understand.

 

“Yes,” he answered cautiously, a little frustrated when he realised he had not the words nor the skills to counter his cousin’s prejudice.

 

“What a waste of time. We the Ñoldor much prefer lore and craft than to wander on the shores without design.”

 

“It is fun to wander on the shores,” Angaráto said with a shrug, unsure if he was to be counted among the Ñoldor or the Lindar. “I would rather do that than sit still and learn the letters.”

 

“Then rightly you are a mere Teler, undeserving of your father’s people. But your blood is diluted anyway, is it not?” he added meanly and reached to tangle his fingers in Angaráto’s golden hair. He gave it a hard pull and laughed. “You have the blood of Indis the serpent .”

 

Angaráto stepped back, bewildered that his cousin had not only touched his hair without permission, but also pulled at it.

 

The blood of Indis the serpent? He had met his grandmother the day his father had taken him to see the Trees, and aunt Findis, and more cousins with lots of babies. Everyone was golden-haired, and he had told his father happily ‘ _They have hair like us like here!_ ’. Yet the Vanyar were different: they seemed grave and solemn, next to the merry Lindar. His grandmother was fair and golden, and looked nothing like a serpent. Why would Carnistir say so?

 

“She is not a serpent! You are the serpent, with your red face,” he declared indignantly, holding his hair where his cousin had pulled.

 

Carnistir looked angry, and to Angaráto’s shock, he moved closer and pushed him so hard that he lost his balance. He gaped at him from the floor, not understanding what had just happened. None of his Alqualondë cousins had ever pushed him thus, save in jest when they played among the waves. But this was no jest.

 

“Take it back,” Carnistir said, and stepped on Angaráto’s hand.

 

“I take it back!” He yielded right away, giving out a small cry when his fingers were crushed. “You are not a serpent, and, and... your face is not red...” he added in confusion, because Carnistir’s face _was_ red. His cousin found this appeasing enough, for he stepped aside to let him stand.

 

“I do not like you at all,” Angaráto said angrily as he dusted off his robes.

 

“Nor I you, but my father has sent me here and I am your guest.” He spoke with an arrogance that unnerved Angaráto.

 

“These are my father’s gardens. I could banish you, if I wanted,” he said, trying to sound just as confident.

 

“If you do, I will tell your father that you pushed me. What do you think he would say?”

 

Angaráto did not answer. He was too surprised to ponder what his father would say because Carnistir had just threatened to lie. To lie! Did he not know how evil it was to lie? He looked at his cousin, full with a dreadful foreboding that they would never be friends.

 

“Stay then,” he said grudgingly, “but stay away from me and my toys.”

 

Talking about the toys was a mistake, and Angaráto realised it when Carnistir bent down to pick one of his wooden horses. “These are your toys? My father makes mine, and they are far better than yours.”

 

Arafinwë had in fact made many of Angaráto’s toys. He had no great skill for carving, but the horse looked enough like a horse for the boy’s liking.

 

“I care not,” he said snatching the horse, but Carnistir did not let go.

 

He pulled harder, and was angered that his cousin pulled back. The children wrestled for the toy, but Angaráto’s grip proved to be too strong: the horse snapped in two, one half in his fist, the other in Carnirstir’s.

 

“No!” Angaráto cried in dismay.

 

Carnistir threw his half into the pond with a swift movement. Horrified, the golden haired boy ran to the edge of it, but it had sunk too deep for him to retrieve it. He did not want to get scolded again for jumping into ponds without permission. And when he looked down at his own disfigured half of the horse, he realised it was hopeless anyway. It had been severed at the neck, and the ugly stump could not be fixed.

 

Furious, he turned to face his cousin, but found the gardens empty. Carnistir had disappeared. Angaráto ran inside, but found no traces of his ungracious playmate.

 

“Father!” he called out loudly, but no reply came.

 

He found Arafinwë with the baby brother in the nursery. His teeth were growing and he wailed often since it caused him a pain that songs or sweets could not calm. Baby Aráto was in his father’s arms, his little hands clutching Arafinwë’s shirt.

 

“Father!” Angaráto shouted again, startling both his father and his brother.

 

“Hush, Angaráto,” Arafinwë said distractedly before turning back to the baby who wailed even louder. “Did you have fun with Carnistir?”

 

“No!” Angaráto hissed and moved closer, displeased to be denied his father’s attention.

 

Arafinwë fussed about with the baby, singing some soft words meant to lessen the pain but they brought little relief.

 

“Dad!” he demanded again, tugging on Arafinwë’s sleeve.

 

“Not now, son! Do you not see I am trying to soothe your brother?” Arafinwë said impatiently.

 

Distressed that his father would not hear him, Angaráto flung the broken toy across the room, but this too went unnoticed. He ran to his own room and hurled himself in his bed to cry.


	3. Chapter 3

Carnistir returned nearly every day, to Angaráto’s chagrin.

 

He could not understand why his cousin came. He was disagreeable and rude, and looked like he would have much rather been somewhere else. Angaráto would have wished this, too, but since his father had not wanted to listen to him, he stubbornly kept silent about his misgivings. Findaráto he would have told - his dashing big brother who, he was sure, would have never let anyone harm him - but the older boy spent long hours in the library and was too tired to play or talk whenever he came back.

 

Still brooding over the loss of the wooden horse, he began hiding his toys so that his cousin would not find them. When Carnistir spilled ink all over his drawing notebook (an unspeakable mess of blue and red and green that left angry stains on the study table), Angaráto started hiding his notebooks as well. He did tell Arafinwë it had been his cousin, mostly because he did not want to have to clean the table, but his father said it was no matter, and made him clean it anyway. His fingers were red and green for days afterwards, and Eärwen was not amused that his robes had also gotten ink all over.

 

He _hated_ Carnistir.

 

The obvious solution was to tell his father he never wanted to play with his cousin again. He could not understand exactly why, but Angaráto knew Arafinwë would not consent to this unless he told him all that had happened, and then his father would ask why he had not come sooner. What a drag.

 

He was sitting on a bench by his pond, wondering what would be the best way to start talking about this, when a smack on the back of his head signalled Carnistir’s presence in the garden.

 

“Why did you come? Go away,” the boy grumbled, rubbing his head with one hand, and trying to swat his cousin away with the other.

 

Carnistir stepped aside and shrugged. “My father sent me,” he said, like he did every day.

 

“Then tell your father not to send you,” Angaráto grumbled.

 

He moved away from him, but his cousin followed. Angaráto was glad that he did. He did not want him anywhere near the fish. The old lazy fish of the first pond had been transferred to the new one, and he was his closest friend. Not for the likes of Carnistir.

 

There was only a ball they could play with. Most of the times this game was pleasant, since his cousin was not as swift-footed as he was. Winning was the smallest of victories, but it did not happen often: Carnistir had the unnerving habit of hurling the ball at his face when he began losing. Angaráto sighed and kicked the ball unenthusiastically, hoping his cousin would get bored soon.

 

He did, and then said, “You must get your other toys. Surely you have more. Show them to me.”

 

“I do,” Angaráto said stiffly, “but I do not want you to break them like you broke my horse.”

 

“You broke your horse yourself, pulling on the head like that. You were clumsy. I am not to blame.”

 

“You are not to blame?! How can you say you are not to blame!”

 

“I am not, and you are boring me even more. Show me your toys, or I will go back to my father and tell him you were an ungracious host.”

 

Still angry, Angaráto managed to ask himself whether this would not be a good solution. At least he would be rid of Carnistir!

 

“I will not show them to you,” he said, waiting eagerly for his cousin to storm out to his father.

 

But Carnistir only looked at him, and then smiled. “I think it is best I show you my toys, then. My father made them. You will see. They are like no toys you have ever played with, and certainly better than yours.”

 

“Ugh!” Angaráto growled in frustration and moved away from him, but his curiosity had been piqued in spite of himself. It was the second time these toys had been brought up. “What is so great about them?” he asked after a pause, biting his lips.

 

“Come,” Carnistir said. “You will see.”

 

Angaráto followed him hesitantly to Fëanáro’s wing, wondering if perhaps he should not have asked for permission to go first. But Carnistir’s quick steps left him little choice, and the boy found himself on the other side of the Palace before he could think to turn back.

 

Like the first time, he instantly felt intimidated in the huge halls of his uncle, but there was no Arafinwë to hold his hand. It was as busy as ever, and the Elves visibly engaged in crafts paid no mind to the two little boys.

 

How was it that his uncle had made his halls appear so tall? The ceilings curled like in the rest of the Palace, but the masonry was so elaborated that it gave an illusion that they continued up forever. On the very centre of the ceiling, a beautiful star had been carved in the stone, with eight rays and eight spikes. Angaráto stared up at it, mesmerised.

 

“Be careful, stupid!” Carnistir told him. He moved him out of the way of an Elf, too preoccupied with a smoking instrument in his hands to notice the golden-haired child in his way.

 

“Where is he going?” Angaráto asked, a little frightened that they could have collided.

 

“To the forges, of course,” his cousin answered with a vague gesture towards the side of the wing where most of the smoke and most of the heat seemed to come from.

 

He pinched him to make him move along and opened a little door. The playroom was much smaller and cozier than the rest of Fëanáro’s wing. It reminded Angaráto of his own room back in his father’s halls. There were five chests in the room, all of them full of toys.

 

Carnistir had not lied. They were absolutely wonderful.

 

One by one, Angaráto went through the chests, marvelling beyond belief. He had not even known it was possible for toys to be like this. The wooden ones were not stiff, lifeless creatures; instead, they had perfectly correct bodies, well proportioned, and the limbs were connected with joints exactly like the ones in any hröa. Arms could be raised, knees could be bent, and heads could turn in every direction the child fancied.

 

And those were only the wooden ones! Others had been made out of tin, and silver, and even gold, and had exquisitely tiny jewels as eyes and mouths. There were crystals, too: spherical objects where the light caught in beautiful twirls, rolling perfectly on the smooth floor. Some boxes had hinges that could be turned: sweet, childish tunes would play out of nowhere, and tiny little figures would dance to the music.

 

“You were right,” he whispered. “Your toys are wonderful.”

 

Carnistir, for once, had not been nasty, or unkind. He had shown Angaráto toy after toy, with a patience that was quite unexpected. His smile was proud, but he had reason for it: Fëanáro’s crafts justified any arrogance. The smile made him look less dark, and Angaráto would have even found him pleasant had he not been so absorbed by the wonders he discovered.

 

“The best ones are in that cupboard,” Carnistir told him as he dragged him to a corner of the room where a small wooden cupboard was. There was an iron key on a lock, and the boy turned it swiftly.

 

Angaráto peeked inside. “There is nothing here,” he said, confused.

 

“They are in there,” his cousin said, and pushed him inside when he leaned in more. Angaráto lost his balance and landed inside, annoyed. He should have known Carnistir’s niceness would not last. He tried to stand, but the cupboard door slammed shut behind him.

 

The child turned, or tried to turn, since there was little space. The door did not move when he tried to push it back open. He heard a click, and shivered when he understood that it was the cupboard lock.

 

“Carnistir!” he shouted, but his cousin only laughed. “This is not funny! Let me out!”

 

He banged on the wooden door, to no avail. His fists were heavy, but they could do little against solid wood. He kicked, too, but there was not much room to move his feet around. He could barely fit, curled up as he was.

 

And it was dark, unnaturally dark. There was no light whatsoever. It was as if someone had put out the Trees he had just learnt to love. The thought was distressing and disturbingly vivid. Could the Trees really be darkened?

 

“Carnistir!” he called once more, but only heard the sound of footsteps retreating.

 

The more he kicked and punched, the worst he felt in the reduced space. After what felt like forever, he fell back, heaving and exhausted, and the stiff wood was most unpleasant against his back. If only there was a light in this darkness! His distress only grew larger. What if Carnistir never let him out? What if no one found him? He whimpered, drawing his knees up to his chest to rest his head against them.

 

 _Father_ , he thought desperately. _Father!_

 

How much longer he lied there, he did not know. He had been wailing for a long time when the lock turned unexpectedly, and light flooded in the cupboard. Arafinwë was there, his hands held out to him. Angaráto bolted into his arms. His father lifted him and held him against him tightly.

 

“Shh, my baby. Shh,” he said, in the same soothing voice he used with the little brother.

 

“I am dreadfully sorry about this, Uncle,” someone said, and through his tears, Angaráto saw a red-haired young Elf standing next to them. He buried his head into his father’s shirt. He did not care.

 

“I thank you for the apology, Russandol, but your father will hear about this,” Arafinwë said stiffly and left the room with Angaráto still crying in his arms.

 

Only his mother’s embrace calmed him down, back in their family quarters. Eärwen held him in his lap, her silver braids tickling against his forehead. She always smelled like the sea, even in Tirion. Angaráto stayed limp against her, still trembling a little when he remembered the darkness.

 

“Can the Trees really darken?” Angaráto whispered.

 

“Of course not, my love,” Eärwen said soothingly.

 

“Yavanna would never let that happen," Arafinwë added.

 

“But I saw it. It will happen. There was no light. Not even stars. Only darkness, and no more Trees. Death. Blood and darkness!” the boy said disjointly.

 

“Death! Blood and darkness! Where did you hear such words?” his mother asked, but Angaráto had no answer for this. The thoughts had come to his lips unbidden. For some reason, they reminded him of the young Elf he had briefly seen in the room. Russandol? His hair was also the colour of blood.

 

“I find it difficult to believe a child could be so cruel,” Arafinwë told Eärwen, and knelt by them. “Has Carnistir been nasty to you before?” he asked his son, stroking his hair out of his sweaty forehead.

 

“All the time,” he answered softly, and heard his parents sigh.

 

“I am quite tempted to turn him away if he dares to come here another day. I would not have you play with Carnistir in Fëanáro’s wing, if you must play at all. You are not to go over there without my leave again.”

 

Angaráto nodded numbly, but thought of the figurines, and the musical boxes, and the golden toys, and found with dismay that he longed to play with them again.


	4. Chapter 4

Finally, Carnistir stopped coming.

 

Arafinwë had words with uncle Fëanáro over what happened in the cupboard. Angaráto was with Babyráto when Arafinwë returned from their meeting angry and empty-handed. He had begged his little brother to be quiet so he could hear everything. Babyráto had complied, surprisingly, and had chewed on Angaráto hair while he listened. It was gross, but at least he heard what Arafinwë told Eärwen.

 

Fëanáro had said, “Children play, Arafinwë. I cannot prevent this from happening.” And when Arafinwë had insisted that Carnistir was unusually nasty to Angaráto, Fëanáro added, “There are five sons in my House, and if I paid heed to every quarrel between them, I would do little else in the day.”

 

That was a strange thing to say, Angaráto thought. He rarely quarreled with Findaráto, except if Angaráto wandered in his room and touched his things without permission. Other than that, Findaráto was kind. The little brother had the odd and infuriating fondness of chewing Angaráto’s toys, but he could not imagine quarreling with him either, at least not yet. Were brothers really supposed to fight?

 

In any case, Arafinwë said he would not let Carnistir come back to play with Angaráto.

 

“At least we’re rid of him,” the boy told Babyráto when his parents quieted.

 

“Egh,” the little brother answered enthusiastically.

 

He had a name now, but Angaráto was still not used to it. It sounded too much like his own. Arafinwë had named the little brother Ambaráto, because his golden hair rose upon his head in strange directions. On the same day, Eärwen had also revealed a name of her own. Sharp-flame, she said, because of his hair, but it also sounded like fell-fire. One had to know Goldorin well to notice. Neither Arafinwë nor Angaráto liked this name, Arafinwë because it was much too dreary and foreboding for such a tiny boy, and Angaráto because it made him think of uncle Fëanáro. Fell fire! Fëanáro was the fell fire, not this harmless golden thing who liked clinging to Angaráto’s legs.

 

But not wasting his time with Carnistir meant Angaráto could study for longer, and he learnt letters and numbers quickly. Then Findaráto’s books that he was not allowed to touch lost a lot of their charm. He still entered his brother’s rooms, but no longer stared at the golden books and parchments in awe, since he could decipher what they were about. Findaráto’s possessions were fascinating, and the boy had found ways to sneak in and look at his books and then put everything back the way it was, so that the eldest would not notice.

 

One book was about languages, another about the Valar, a third one about metals of Arda... Well, that was somewhat interesting. Angaráto flipped over the pages, forgetting about the little brother briefly. He liked the sketches, and knew what the words were, but still did not understand what the book said. It was written in a queer way. He placed it back, disappointed.

 

Findaráto had left his toys in Alqualondë, and instead had grown-up games that he played with Turukáno, boards with figurines and symbols.

 

“Mmm,” Babyráto said and sucked on a wooden disk eagerly.

 

“No, no, that is not for eating!” Angaráto said and pulled it out of his the baby's mouth swiftly. He had managed to bite it, and there was a little dent on the side. “Now Findaráto will know we were here...” he grumbled and took Babyráto’s tiny hand in his to pull him away from the room. He cried, but Angaráto ignored him, and did not stop until they were out in the gardens where he could at least give him something edible.

 

And surely enough, Findaráto complained to Arafinwë about the little disk. Angaráto was reminded not to enter his brother's room without permission, especially with the baby in tow. They were told to stay in the nursery (where there were only baby toys) or in the gardens (but to stay away from the pond since Babyráto did not yet know how to swim). That was terribly silly, Angaráto thought. He had seen plenty of Lindar children younger than him, knowing how to swim perfectly well.

 

He did not mind playing with the little brother, but he had to admit that his thoughts turned to the Fëanárion toys over and over again. He thought Carnistir was lucky to be able to play with them every day, if he so wished, whereas Angaráto was idling in the gardens with the baby. Weary and impatient to see the toys again.

 

“Come,” he told the little brother and took him by the hand again.

 

Arafinwë had told him not to go to Fëanáro’s wing without his leave, but perhaps they could stop in the hallway just before entering. Maybe the red-haired cousin would be kind enough to show him the toys. He hoped he would not see Carnistir instead.

 

The two boys stopped right at the entrance of Fëanáro’s halls, by the tall doors where a silver star was also carved. Menacingly, Angaráto thought. The little brother sucked on his thumb quietly, and pressed closer to him.

 

“Nay, it is a bad idea, let us turn back,” Angaráto whispered.

 

He turned around to leave, but just then, the doors swung open and Fëanáro came out dressed in black riding breeches, and his dark hair carefully braided behind his head. The red haired cousin was with him, along with another boy with a harp slung across his shoulders. Angaráto cowered from them, and tried to move back, but he could not be unseen.

 

“Well, well,” Fëanáro said with a smirk, “if it isn’t Ingalaurë’s troublesome boy.”

 

Angaráto knew he had to greet his uncle, but he did not know how to phrase it when Fëanáro had spoken first and called him troublesome. He looked up at him, not finding the words. He was still ashamed about having angered him the last time he had seen him.

 

“Nah-roh!” the little brother said and moved forward towards Fëanáro so eagerly that Angaráto nearly let go of him. The baby made a displeased sound and pulled on his brother’s hand, reaching for his uncle with the other.

 

“And this must be the youngest,” Fëanáro said, kneeling to be at eye-level with the baby.

 

The little brother held his glance, surprisingly, but scowled at him after a moment. He turned away to hide behind Angaráto again.

 

The dark-haired boy with the harp laughed, but Fëanáro did not. “The sons of Arafinwë have little love for me,” he said thoughtfully, and it was still so difficult to know whether he was amused or serious. Angaráto wished he had never come.

 

“Oh, please, father, they are young children,” the red-haired cousin said with a wave of his hand.

 

Fëanáro looked at his son with a raised eyebrow, but turned to his nephews again. “What brings you here, child?” he asked, his eyes burning as ever. “I was under the impression your father no longer wanted you to play with Carnistir.”

 

“He does not,” Angaráto admitted and lowered his eyes. “We wandered too far, and my steps brought me here.”

 

It was not a complete lie. Next to him, Babyráto pressed harder against him, hiding his face in Angaráto's tunic. Was he afraid? Angaráto would protect him. He lifted him in his arms, the best he could, and [the baby snuggled against him](http://66.media.tumblr.com/a8165899cc469190ac58aca28f1af9b0/tumblr_mpy1dx1qLr1rjtaago1_1280.png). It was strange to feel like an older brother, for the first time.

 

“We shall go now,” he added with what he hoped was a firm and unwavering voice, like Arafinwë when he spoke. It worked. He felt vindicated when he saw a flicker of surprise in his uncle’s eyes.

 

The red haired elf knelt to look into Angaráto’s eyes. He was very tall.

 

“I am your cousin Russandol,” he said with a nice smile. How unlike Fëanáro he was! “My brother was unkind to you last time you were here. Would you like to have one of our toys to forget this bitter memory?”

 

“Nonsense,” Fëanáro said, but Angaráto was already nodding yes.

 

“A little horse?” he asked quietly. To replace the one Carnistir had broken.

 

“A horse, then,” Russandol said and smiled again.

 

Angaráto thanked him with a bow that he hoped looked gracious enough. At last, one of the toys would be his! He went away swiftly, before Fëanáro could say anything else to them, or maybe even forbid Russandol from giving it to him.

 

He needed not have worried. Arafinwë called him to his study room the next day. There were many books there too, and Arafinwë did not mind Angaráto looking at them. But they were even more boring than Findaráto's. His father was sitting behind his desk, and did not look pleased, but Angaráto was too excited to notice.

 

Russandol had sent the horse with a letter written in large, clear letters like when Arafinwë wanted Angaráto to read something easily. But the boy did not read it. He had no time for that! He ran to stroke the toy eagerly, marvelling again when he admired the carving of the muscles. It was bigger than the one he had lost earlier. It had real hair for a mane, soft silky hair that Angaráto stroked again and again. It was perfect.

 

“Russandol writes ‘ _As promised, here is a present that I hope will make you forget my brother’s unkindness_ ’. Why does he say ‘as promised’? When did he promise this to you?” Arafinwë asked slowly.

 

Angaráto looked up, his heart panging unpleasantly. Only then did he notice what Arafinwë looked like. Would he be denied the toy if he confessed having wandered over to Fëanáro’s halls? Yet how could he lie to Arafinwë? His mouth felt dry when his father put his hand on the horse, as if about to take it away.

 

“Please don’t,” the boy said in a small voice. “Babyráto and I met Fëanáro and Russandol yesterday before they went out. They were wearing riding breeches.”

 

“ _Where_ exactly did you see your uncle?”

 

“Near his halls,” he admitted and glanced at the toy sadly, fearing it would be the last time he saw it.

 

“Did I not say you were not to go there without my leave?”

 

Arafinwë was staring at him, and he sensed his father’s touch on his mind. He was trying to figure whether he was lying. Angaráto felt like crying.

 

“I did not go... I stopped before we made it there.”

 

“What in Varda’s stars made you want to return there, child?” Arafinwë leaned closer, but Angaráto did not want to look at his eyes. “I thought you no longer wished to play with your cousin. Did you miss him so much to drive you to disobey?”

 

“Not Carnistir. The toys...”

 

“Ah, the toys,” Arafinwë said, sounding disappointed. He ran a hand over the horse.

 

“Why can’t you make me toys like this? The ones you make are so ugly next to uncle Fëanáro’s.”

 

It had been a genuine question, because it was upsetting to think Arafinwë was incapable of making anything remotely like Fëanáro. If he were, Angaráto would not need to go beg at his uncle’s door and do things that were forbidden. But his father paled and bit his bottom lip, and his eyes were suddenly very sad. Angaráto realised he had hurt him. Had he been unkind again? He thought of apologising, but Arafinwë composed himself to speak again, though his voice still had a lingering sadness.

 

“It is true, I am not skilled like your uncle. I had not realised you thought your toys unsuitable.”

 

“I don’t,” Angaráto said quickly, because that had not been what he meant at all. There were some he did love. Most of them, in fact. He suddenly did not know what he wanted.

 

“No matter. I cannot make you better toys, but perhaps you are old enough to learn crafting. I had thought to wait until you were thirty, but we may try now. Then you could make some yourself that you like better. I shall find you a teacher.”

 

“Uncle Fëanáro?” Angaráto’s heart stilled at the thought of his uncle’s fiery eyes.

 

“Not him. Someone older and more patient with children, from whom you may learn.”

 

“I do not want to learn. All I want is the horse.”

 

His father looked at Russandol’s toy in a way that made Angaráto realise he had forgotten about it, and that bringing it up again had been a mistake. Arafinwë’s face hardened like it had been when the boy first walked in the room.

 

“This toy is a reward for your disobedience. I had forbidden you to go to Fëanáro’s halls, and you went anyway.”

 

“I did not go. I stopped.”

 

“Yet you meant to go, and that is enough. It is for your own good I do not want you going there, this court is no place for mistakes. I shall not let you have this toy. It will stay in my study to remind you to do as I say.”

 

“Please,” Angaráto begged tearfully, “I will remember.”

 

But Arafinwë shook his head. “Nay, child. Let it be a lesson for you. Now run along, your mother must be looking for you.”

 

The boy did not run, but dragged his feet as he left his father’s study. He stole one mournful glance at the horse before shutting the door behind him. He had been so close to having it! And it would never be his. He wiped his eyes and held back his tears, because he did not want to have to explain to his mother what had just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal love to Jubah for her fantastic art of this chapter!


	5. Chapter 5

 

Arafinwë found him a teacher, an elderly one with a gentle voice. Angaráto enjoyed listening to him, though the actual crafting was more difficult than he had imagined. What he liked best was designing the toys first, drawing them in his notebook to see them crafted afterwards.

 

Some time later, the teacher said Angaráto’s skill was in drawing and not in crafting, and Arafinwë got him another tutor. A younger one, who taught him how to draw figures and shade them and how to paint with chalk. He scolded him often, because Angaráto held the quills too hard and often crushed them before the work was done, but that was really half the fun. His hands were strong, and he loved tracing angry lines on his compositions because it was not unlike raising his voice to mark emphasis in a song. He really loved it.

 

And then Findaráto was turning forty years old. It was not as important as turning fifty, but aunt Anairë said they were hardly ever in Tirion, and never mind landmarks begetting days. It was rare that they were nearly all together in one place. There was to be a feast, an official occasion presided by King Finwë himself.

 

Angaráto could see that this distressed his mother. Their quiet, simple life had been turned upside down because she had to be running back and forth to the cooks, the seamstresses and various other Palace aides who sometimes had difficulties in understanding her heavy accent. Aunt Anairë helped her, at least. But everything was ready in time for the feast, and the halls of King Finwë were decorated with the banners of the House of Arafinwë, silver and gold.

 

The three sons were dressed in white with intermingled threads of gold and silver. Angaráto was very proud to have clothes just like Findaráto’s, and just like Babyráto’s too. His parents interchanged colours: his father wore silver robes, and his mother a golden dress. Eärwen, who usually wore her hair in simple braids, had styled her hair like a Ñoldorin lady, and she wore a small crown of gold decorated with pearls. Angaráto knew Arafinwë liked the way she looked, because he had seen him kissing her just before the feast when they were unaware of his staring.

 

“The House of Arafinwë,” a herald announced when they were still waiting outside the dining room.

 

They entered the feast room together, the five of them. Angaráto had never seen so many people together in a single room. He held Babyráto’s hand tightly, a little intimidated. They were led to the main table where King Finwë was: Findaráto sat at his right, and Arafinwë at his left. Eärwen sat next to her husband with the little brother, so Angaráto had to be next to Findaráto, which was perfect. He looked at his older brother in awe, admiring how effortlessly he greeted their grandfather and thanked him for the feast. All he could manage was a shy smile.

 

Grandmother Indis was not there, which was a bit strange. Neither was grandfather Olwë nor grandmother Volwen nor the other uncles. It was only Tirion people. Ñoldor. That was sad. Angaráto let his gaze wander around the room, to the other two tables of honour. Fëanáro’s was the largest, with his five sons. Angaráto had never seen them all at once, and they had been away in the North for a while, or so people said. Maybe that was where aunt Nerdanel was. He had never met her.

 

“Russandol, Makalaurë, Tyelkormo, Curufinwë and Carnistir,” Findaráto whispered in his ear when he noticed his puzzled look.

 

Russandol smiled at them and Angaráto returned a sheepish smile. He recognised Makalaurë as the boy with the harp from that other time. Tyelkormo was playing with his cutlery, obviously bored. Curufinwë was shockingly identical to his father. Angaráto had often thought Findaráto looked like Arafinwë, but their resemblance was nowhere as perfect as Curufinwë’s to Fëanáro. And Carnistir. Ugh. He did not want to look at him. The other boy glared at him, and Angaráto turned his head away with a huff.

 

The other table of honour was uncle Nolofinwë’s with aunt Anairë, and it was smaller than Arafinwë’s and Fëanáro’s. He only had two sons, Findekáno and Turukáno. Turukáno waved at them, and Findaráto smiled, but Angaráto did not return his greeting. His cousin was a brother-thief, always driving Findaráto away from him.

 

The rest of the tables were occupied by lords and ladies and their children, all dressed in their best robes. They were part of King Finwë’s court, and Angaráto did not know them at all. He wondered why he had never played with them. In Alqualondë all the children played together, family or not.

 

“Your grandfather Olwë had this made for you at my bidding, Findaráto,” Arafinwë said when all were sitting, and uncovered a silver circlet that he presented to his eldest son.

 

Two serpents coiled on each side of the forehead with long tails. Green emeralds were set for the eyes, and a crown of golden leaves stood at the centre, delicate and perfect, devoured and upheld by each of the serpents. It was the sigil of Arafinwë. Angaráto had always loved the design and when he saw it on the circlet he longed to be older to have one of his own.

 

"You look like a king, Findo," he told him quietly, and his brother smiled.

 

"If I am a king, will you be my stewart?" he asked, clearly amused.

 

Angaráto nodded eagerly. Of course he would.

 

The dishes were richer than he was used to, but he was intrigued enough to eat everything. He did not even know the names of most things, and relied on Findaráto whispering what they were as he helped him to the the servings. Angaráto was glad to have his brother's attention, for once. No Turukáno.

 

He leaned over to him and gave him a kiss full of sauce. Findaráto kissed Angaráto's nose in return and pushed him away softly, because the sauce was nearly dripping on his robes. Some of it did drip down, but Findaráto was swift enough to stop it before it stained the white clothes. Angaráto giggled, and when he looked around the room he was surprised to find that Carnistir was staring at them. With surprise but also with unexpected sadness. Angaráto looked away, puzzled. Why would it matter to his cousin whether he played with Findaráto or not?

 

There was a singing contest after the meal, when enough wine had been poured. Angaráto recognised some of Findaráto’s friends from Alqualondë among the singers, and that was quite disappointing. Why had they not brought their younger siblings so that Angaráto could play with them? He missed his friends and Alqualondë, but he did not want to get sad in the middle of the party, so he tried to focus on the singing instead. He knew the contest had been organised at his brother’s request, and that Findaráto had practised for weeks.

 

The best singer was cousin Makalaurë by far. One by one, the singers were eliminated with loud cheers from the audience. At the end of the contest only Findaráto and Makalaurë remained. Angaráto held his breath. The cousins faced each other off in a singing dialogue, where one improvised and the other replied. Most of the verses were jests and easy rhymes, but the tone gradually became more serious and strained as the pace and the difficulties increased. Findaráto began struggling to keep up, while Makalaurë still sang effortlessly. He overpowered him in the end, with a high, vibrating note, and Findaráto hung his head in defeat.

 

“I wish you had won,” Angaráto told him sullenly when Findaráto returned to his seat. Carnistir had just smirked at him in a most infuriating way.

 

“I wish I had won too,” his brother said, and although his face looked calm, Angaráto knew him well enough to notice he was upset. How he had managed to congratulate his cousin in that state was intriguing. “But Makalaurë was better, and he is the rightful winner. I must try harder next time,” Findaráto added, sighing.

 

“Yes, try harder,” Angaráto said with a scowl and got up to mingle around the room.

 

He stared at the children of the lords attending the feast, but did not really know how to start speaking to any of them. He ended up standing by one of the tables with the desserts, trying to choose what he would have.

 

“Hullo,” someone said, and when he faced the voice he found Carnistir there.

 

“Go away!” Angaráto turned away from him, but not before grabbing a piece of fruit cake. “Go away, I said!” he repeated when Carnistir followed him around the room.

 

“Hush, do not make a scene,” Carnistir said with his usual haughtiness. “What will you do, complain to your father again? Tattletale that you are.”

 

“I am not a tattletale!” Angaráto said, nearly choking on his cake from the anger.

 

“You so are. And my brother just beat your brother at singing.”

 

That was still a sore spot. Overwhelmed with bitterness, Angaráto pressed the rest of his cake into Carnistir’s tunic, leaving a dark, fruit-covered stain. Few things had ever felt so satisfying.

 

His cousin gave a shriek. Angaráto was swift: he ran away from him, making it impossible to be accused of anything. Their backs had been turned to the guests so no one had seen. He snuck under a table to emerge at the other end of the hall where Eärwen talked to Anairë.

 

Angaráto pressed against his mother and peeked over to see how his cousin was handling his predicament. Carnistir's face was very red. He had caused a little commotion with his shrieking. One of his older brothers had come to see what it was about. Tyelkormo, the fair one. He cleaned up the mess on Carnistir’s robes, not too kindly. He seemed to be scolding him, and did not look when Carnistir pointed in Angaráto’s direction. Tyelkormo took him by the arm and dragged him back to Fëanáro’s table.

 

Only then did Angaráto realise that Carnistir was crying. That made everything no longer amusing, unexpectedly. It struck him that his cousin's much older brothers were not as nice as Findaráto.

 

The boy bit his lip, unsure what to do. Surely the right thing was to walk over to Fëanáro’s table and tell Tyelkormo that he had been the one at fault. But Carnistir’s three brothers were still there, and uncle Fëanáro, and now grandfather Finwë. Angaráto could not make himself walk there. Instead, he cowardly retreated back to the main table where Findaráto still sat.

 

“Have you forgiven me yet?” his brother asked with a fake smile.

 

Angaráto did not understand at first, but then he remembered. He had been nasty to Findaráto about losing the contest. To his brother, who was kinder than the Fëanárion cousins. He sighed and touched his hand.

 

“I’m sorry for what I said. I just really wanted you to win...”

 

Findaráto kept his empty smile, which made Angaráto terribly unhappy: he had hurt his brother on his begetting day. He let go of the hand and stared down at the table, unsure how to fix it.

 

“I _am_ sorry,” he said again, “I did not want to make you sad.”

 

This time Findaráto leaned closer, enough to pull him onto his lap.

 

“Very well. You may still be my steward, when I am king,” he said with a grin and Angaráto smiled back as he settled on him.

 

“Are you also going to usurp grandfather to be king?”

 

“Usurp grandfather? Where did you hear that?”

 

Angaráto shrugged. He was not sure what it meant exactly, but it sounded like the only way to become King. He must have heard it from Carnistir during one of their play sessions. He still did not dare to look over to Fëanáro’s table. It made him feel evil and craven, even if his cousin had deserved it.

 

“No one will ever usurp anything, Ango. Grandfather Finwë is the King of the Ñoldor, and will always be, despite what Fëanáro thinks.”

 

The boy nodded distractedly, not really knowing why Findaráto was explaining all this. Fëanáro was with Finwë near one of the tables, holding all of the king's attention. No usurping, then. Angaráto looked up at his brother and smiled at him.

 

“It matters not how you become King. I will be a good steward. You will see.”

 

“I know you will. My little brother dearly loved,” Findaráto said with a laugh and kissed the top of Angaráto’s hair, annoyingly. The boy squirmed to get away from the embrace, despite liking it very much.

 

“Do you love me more than Turukáno?” he asked, noticing with some resentment that their cousin was coming in their direction. He would have to share his brother with him again.

 

“Of course I do,” Findaráto said, holding him tighter, and for once he did not send him away when Turukáno sat with them.

 

They had not been speaking long when a commotion was heard at the entrance. Everyone was standing, which made Angaráto unable to see at first, but soon the reason for the flurry became abundantly visible: Lord Ulmo had made his appearance. Angaráto had often see Him when he played by the sea, but this was the first time he saw Him on dry land. Like a fish out of water. The Vala had long, algae-like green hair, and though his body looked like one of the Eldar, He dripped on the floor with every step. He looked small and awkward in this shape. Yet He was still regal when He marched over to Findaráto.

 

“Findaráto, son of Eärwen,” He said. “You have my congratulations on your begetting day.”

 

What a great honour! Even Findaráto, who always knew what to say, could do little else but to stare at Him with his mouth hanging open, and stammered a shy thank you. Lord Ulmo spoke with Eärwen, and with Finwë. A murmur of awe followed Him everywhere He went. Findaráto had the Vala’s favour, everyone said. Angaráto had never been prouder.

 

Nobody was minding him, so Angaráto followed Ulmo out of the room when He made his retreat. It was easy. The boy only had to follow the puddles He was leaving on the Palace corridors and catch Him before He changed form and vanished. Angaráto ran as fast as he could.

 

He found Ulmo in the gardens, waiting for him.

 

“What is it, little one?” He said with a kind smile.

 

“What about me?” Angaráto asked shyly, though he was not afraid. “I am also a son of Eärwen.”

 

The Vala laughed softly. “I know this, and I have not forgotten you. What would you have of me?”

 

Angaráto paused to think. “I miss the Sea,” he said at last. “Would you make waves in my pond? I know my fish would like it very much.”

 

“Show me your fish.”

 

Angaráto led him to the pond. The old fish was swimming lazily on the far side of the pond, not minding the smaller fish as was his wont, but perked up when he sensed Ulmo’s presence nearby. He jumped and twisted in the air to greet Him, something he had never done before. Angaráto gasped excitedly.

 

“Hm, yes, I see your fish loves you very much,” Ulmo said after a pause. He was looking more and more like his normal shape the closer He was to the water.

 

“He is my best friend,” Angaráto said softly and reached in the water to pet him.

 

“Very well, son of Eärwen. Your pond shall have waves twice a day, with the mingling of the Lights. Would this be enough for you, my demanding sea-child?”

 

Angaráto blushed, but thanked him nonetheless with a little bow, like he had seen his brother do. When he looked up, he found that the Vala had disappeared. He looked into the pond, hoping to catch a last glimpse of Him, but only found some isolated bubbles on the far side of the pond.

  
Angaráto hurried back to the party, unaware that Carnistir had followed him, and had seen it all from the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it was not clear until now, I am using the Shibboleth's order in which Caranthir is the fifth son of Fëanor, not the fourth.


	6. Chapter 6

The day after Findaráto’s begetting day was very boring. Since all of the court had gathered in Tirion for the feast, grandfather Finwë was holding a session with all the lords. Arafinwë was attending and Findaráto too, for the first time. Eärwen had gone for a walk with aunt Anairë. The whole Palace was eerily quiet but for the throne room and Angaráto was alone, with only the little brother to keep him company.

 

“Let’s swim in the pond,” he told him.

 

He would teach him how to swim. That was what older brothers did, teach the little ones, though it had been years since Findaráto had taught him anything. Babyráto seemed delighted with the idea. But they did not quite make it to the pond. Right next to it, in the garden, Carnistir stood, struggling with something in his hands. Something silver and slippery, that slid out of his hands and flapped on the ground miserably.

 

“My fish!” Angaráto shrieked and raced towards the pond.

 

But he was not fast enough. The fish painfully jumped on the ground one last time and stilled just as Angaráto reached it. It looked _asleep_. But when he touched him he knew the fish was dead, dead like the food on the table and game that was hunted. But this was his fish! Why had he died?

 

“I was only trying to look at it better...” Carnistir said, sounding just as shocked as he was.

 

Angaráto looked up and disturbing visions flashed before his eyes. Red water, bodies in the sea. A long, steel stick drenched in blood. And a grown Carnistir smirking the most frightening smile that he had ever seen.

 

“You _slew_ my friend!” Angaráto screamed, though he had never heard that verb before. “ _Slayer_!”

 

He pushed Carnistir away as hard as he could, which was, shockingly, a lot. His cousin skid away on the ground and bumped his head against the fountain. Carnistir looked up at him, surprised but seething with anger. It was the first time Angaráto ever hurt him. It was the first time Angaráto ever hurt anyone.

 

The other boy leapt to his feet. Angaráto did not know what to expect, but braced himself against the assault purely by instinct. Carnistir was not stronger, but it was clear from the way his fists rained on him that he knew how to fight. Angaráto lost his balance and curled up under the hits, uncertain what to do to get away.

 

And then something quite unexpected happened. As Angaráto was lying there on the dirt, through the blur of his tears he saw his baby brother jump on Carnistir. The little one had never looked so fierce.

 

“Evil Moryo!” he shouted, “No hurt Ango!”

 

He went on and pummeled on his much older cousin, roaring with anger, an eerie glow shining around his stiff golden hair. A sharp-flame. Aikanáro. Never had his mother name been truer than when he stood for Angaráto against Carnistir.

 

But the older boy was far stronger, and got rid of the little one effortlessly. Carnistir grabbed Aikanáro by the arm and smacked him away like some nuisance. It was then that Angaráto found all the courage he had lacked in his dealings with his cousin.

 

“Stay away from my brother!” he shouted and jumped to his feet.

 

This time he did know what to do with his fists. He punched, and he hit, and if Angaráto ever doubted he had an iron grip he quickly discovered otherwise. Everywhere his fist landed left a mark on his cousin’s skin, but he did not stop hitting him, not even when when Carnistir began wailing.

 

A pair of strong hands suddenly lifted him off his cousin and he kicked furiously, still trying to reach him, but then froze. He was in his father’s arms, and all of Finwë’s court was gathered in the garden, staring at him in mute horror. All of the court. Even Grandfather. The lords and ladies, and uncle Fëanáro. Angaráto went limp in Arafinwë’s arms and he was placed on the ground.

 

Carnistir was still crying on the floor, bruised and bloodied. Uncle Fëanáro walked up to him and scooped him in his arms to assess the damage.

 

“This is outrageous, Arafinwë,” he said sharply, showing his child around for the whole court to see. “What is _wrong_ with your son?”

 

Angaráto tried to hide against his father, but found no sympathy there. “I know not, brother,” Arafinwë said, his voice as cold as ice. “I am just as dismayed as you are.”

 

“This is a childish rivalry no more,” Fëanáro went on, “this is a vicious attack.”

 

“An attack? We really ought to first find out what...”

 

“An attack!” Fëanáro shouted and the whispering lords fell into silence at once. “The whole court has seen. Your son beat my son senseless, and I shall not let it rest. Father! What say you?”

 

Grandfather’s face looked ashen. Not just sad, deeply worried as well. He was wearing his golden crown, which made everything more serious and official. Angaráto wanted nothing more but to run away and hide somewhere he could not be found. But his father was holding his arm, and did not let him move.

 

“It is a grave matter,” Grandfather Finwë said at last, rubbing his forehead as if in pain. “If they were fully grown this would be against our laws. These are young children, and I would settle this with you two alone, but the whole court has seen indeed. Tend to your sons’ injuries and bring them to court at the mingling of the Lights, so we may discuss what course to take.”

 

The crowd dispersed quickly. Fëanáro was the first to leave, his eyes ablaze and Carnistir still in arms. Everyone stared at Angaráto in disbelief on their way out, even Findekáno and Turukáno. Soon no one was left in the garden save Arafinwë, Findaráto and Aikanáro, who had not cried once during the ordeal, not even when Carnistir had hit him. Angaráto felt very much like crying.

 

“What happened?” his father asked slowly. He seemed so tall.

 

“He hit Aikanáro,” Angaráto said, suddenly angry again. “And he killed my fish.”

 

The poor fish was still lying there by the pond, forgotten. Angaráto shuddered looking at it. At least Arafinwë and Findaráto looked disturbed at the sight too. He told them everything, his little fists curling again.

 

“Then you should have come find me,” his father said.

 

“No one was here!”

 

“Do not shout. No one is shouting. If Carnistir hit your brother and harmed your fish, you should have come find me, or your mother. I never thought I would have to tell you this, but we do _not_ hit people. We do not, Angaráto. It is unnatural and against our laws.”

 

“The laws are wrong, then. Carnistir is evil and deserved to be hit,” Angaráto said, defiantly.

 

Arafinwë’s eyes grew harder, but Angaráto held his stare.

 

“No one deserves to be hit, no matter how 'evil' they are. Evil is a strong word for a child your age. Your cousin may have wronged you, but you should have never beaten him the way you did. When I take you to court later today, you will apologise to him.”

 

“I will not!”

 

“You will, Angaráto, I order you so.”

 

“I will not! I will never apologise to him! Never!”

 

Angaráto was shouting again without realising. Arafinwë hid his eyes with his hand and sighed. A long, heavy sigh dripping with grief that made the boy fall silent at once.

 

“Findaráto, please. Take him somewhere he can calm down. I am too angry to reason with him right now.”

 

Findaráto took his hand and led him away from their father, deep into the garden. This time Angaráto did not dare resist, abruptly aware of how serious matters were if Arafinwë was angry. The baby followed them quietly. The three of them stopped next to a fountain, and Findaráto made him sit on the edge. His brother wiped his face with a cloth, combed his hair and checked he was not injured. Carnistir had hit him hard, but had left few marks.

 

“Aikanáro is braver than me, you know,” Angaráto said softly, unsure how to break the silence. “He fought Carnistir first, when he was kicking me. I would have never had the courage to face him had Aikanáro not been so brave.”

 

No more Babyráto. His brother would be Aikanáro from now on. The little boy put his hands on Angaráto’s knees, grinning up at him. Angaráto wanted to hug him and never let go. Findaráto only looked thoughtful.

 

“Fighting does not make one brave. I am sad the little one fought too. It is wrong to fight, Ango. The Eldar do not fight that way. You must never do it again.”

 

“But I had to,” Angaráto said, more serious than he had never been.

 

“I believe you. But it was a grave mistake, given the tensions in the court. You are too little to notice, but there are other fights being fought around you. Not with fists and feet, but with words. Uncle Fëanáro is quick to take offense. It would be dire enough if you two had fought quietly, but the whole court was there. He will use this against us. He will argue that our father taught you to dislike our cousin.”

 

“But that is a lie,” Angaráto said, frowning. He did not understand.

 

“You and I know it is a lie, but no one else knows this. It is our word against theirs. And many will not believe us, and will believe Fëanáro instead.”

 

“But why is it forbidden to fight with your fists and not with your words?”

 

“Because you cause bodily harm with your violence...” Findaráto answered, but sounded hesitant.

 

“And do words not also hurt?”

 

“They do. But using your hands means your words have failed and that must never be. Did you forget you were so strong?” he asked gently, and took his brother’s hands in his.

 

Angaráto nodded slowly. In truth, he had not realised he had the power to cause so much harm. He could have gotten rid of Carnistir a lot earlier, had he known this sooner. Yet he vaguely knew that thinking this was wrong, and he hung his head in shame, staring at their joined hands.

 

“What is going to happen now?” he asked. He was beginning to dread the Mingling of the Lights. Would his father still be angry? Would uncle Fëanáro? Would everyone else?

 

“The court will meet and I suppose grandfather will hear you, Carnistir and you. You may only speak when he asks you to, and you must otherwise be silent. I imagine father will do most of the talking anyway. And you must do as he said, and offer an apology to our cousin for hitting him.”

 

Angaráto pursed his lips, but argued no more. Grandfather would understand. He would have to, when he heard what had happened. He would see Angaráto was right, and that Carnistir deserved no apology.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Mouse for advice on this chapter.

 

The large hall fell silent when Arafinwë entered with his son. They were the same people who had been at the feast the day before, but their eyes were unkind. Angaráto felt very small, and had an unpleasant knot in his throat.

 

Uncle Fëanáro was already there with Carnistir, who was no longer crying, but his face was red and purple where Angaráto had hit him. His nose was still bloody, and his bottom lip was split and swollen. He looked dreadful. The boy felt a vague wave of guilt when he saw the damage on his cousin so plainly. He glanced up at his father, but Arafinwë was not looking at him. He was tense and stiff, and looked straight at King Finwë.

 

"We may begin, now that you are all here. Tell me what happened, child," grandfather said.

 

Angaráto was intimidated, but managed to tell his story without wavering. The bloodied vision he kept to himself. He did not understand it enough. The part about the dead fish made some lords gasp, and he felt vindicated.

 

"Now, Morifinwë, tell me what happened," Finwë said when Angaráto was done, and this shocked the child. He had just told him what had happened. Why did he need to ask Carnistir? But Findaráto had told him to be silent, so he was.

 

His cousin gave an abridged version of what happened. He claimed not to have known the fish would die. That was stupid, Angaráto thought. Everyone knew fish died out of the water. Carnistir said Angaráto had hit him then, refusing to listen to his apology. He did not say he had hit first. There was a murmur in the room.

 

"My nephew is not telling all," Arafinwë said calmly.

 

"My child hides nothing," Uncle Fëanáro said. "How was he to know your son would turn into a wild beast?"

 

"It is not the first time Carnistir is unkind to Angaráto. I spoke of it with you once, but you said you had not the time to heed quarreling children."

 

There was a murmur in the room again. Angaráto could see how his father's shoulders were tense, but he stood tall and firm next to Fëanáro. They were the same height.

 

"I would have, had I known this would be the outcome. But I did not foresee that one of the children of gentle, peace-loving Arafinwë would beat another in anger."

 

That made Angaráto feel ashamed. Was this what the rest of the court thought? That he was an unworthy son? It was so dismaying that he wanted to hide. If only Arafinwë would look at him. But his father was staring at Fëanáro intently.

 

"Yea," Fëanáro went on, "I question Arafinwë's ability to rule over anyone, let alone his children. He is too gentle to be respected. What leader is he who cannot even lead his House? What father is he who does not teach his son right from wrong?"

 

He is a great father, Angaráto thought fiercely, and took a step forward, but Findaráto held him back. He had not realised his brother was also there.

 

"Being 'gentle', as you say, is no fault, and my followers are as loyal to me as yours. Yet we are not here to argue over this."

 

"Are we not? A child learns what a father teaches."

 

"And what does it say about you, then, when yours tramples over younger children, locks them in dark cupboards, and kills their pets?"

 

There was a louder murmur. Many people were speaking at once. Uncle Fëanáro looked angry, but Arafinwë did not. He went on, "Your son Russandol could tell us more about the cupboard."

 

Russandol was at the other end of the hall, and most heads turned in his direction. He seemed embarrassed.

 

"No need," Fëanáro said. "It was an isolated childish prank."

 

"Was it? How is it different from what happened today? I did not drag you to court over it. Are we judging two misbehaving children or two adults liable for their doings? The premise of this session borders on farcical."

 

"Farcical? These injuries are no jest to us, half-brother. It goes far beyond children misbehaving. This is a full blown fight, and if your child answers not for his attack, then you must."

 

That was not what Angaráto had thought would happen. It was painful to hear. He hid his face in his hands. Findaráto was still holding him. There was a long silence in the room, and at last Arafinwë spoke.

 

"Very well, I will. I am. What would you have me do?"

 

Fëanáro did not answer. He was looking at grandfather Finwë.

 

"There are precedents," the King said slowly. "Not long ago this court debated about stonemason apprentices quarreling over the third bridge structural design. The provoker was invited to relinquish his rights to the project."

 

"My son's reaction was disproportionate, but he was not unprovoked," Arafinwë said.

 

Fëanáro scoffed. "So your son says, but mine claims otherwise."

 

"Angaráto does not lie."

 

"And before today, I suppose you thought Angaráto does not hit. I do wonder what you think sometimes. When I met your child not long ago, you had not even taught him to read."

 

People in court gasped. Arafinwë looked mortified. "I taught him to read," he said, though his voice was not as steady as it had been.

 

"At my bidding, you mean. I recall you said it was unimportant for Teleri children, that they were left to their own devices. As if you were not a Ñoldo yourself. Are you? What is it that you teach your children, what bizarre philosophy is this?"

 

Angaráto had never felt sorrier. Sorry for Arafinwë, who was being attacked unfairly because of him. He escaped Findaráto's grip and moved forward.

 

"I am sorry I hit him. I did not think his face would be so hurt. And it wasn't my father's fault. He was not even there."

 

He could tell, from the way everyone was looking at him, that he was not supposed to have spoken then. But the murmurs were not unkind. Grandfather Finwë smiled at him.

 

"Well, the offender regrets his deed and has offered an apology. They are very young children, and still teachable. I see no need to question Arafinwë. After all, Findaráto has turned out admirably well."

 

Unlike me, Angaráto thought sadly.

 

"Is your cousin's apology agreeable to you?" Finwë asked Carnistir. The boy met Angaráto's eyes. His glance was unfriendly as ever. Yet he nodded his head stiffly. "Very good. Make your peace, then."

 

Angaráto had to hold his cousin's hand. It was warm and moist and gross, but he knew better than to make a face.

 

"Is that all?" Fëanáro said. "Are we to forgive and forget?"

 

"Your son has. Let us not turn this into a deeper feud, my son. Please."

 

Grandfather Finwë looked unkingly when he said that. Uncle Fëanáro left with his children, and Finwë went after him. The Hall emptied slowly, but a few lingered behind. Uncle Ñolofinwë came closer. Arafinwë told him, "This was just as I feared. How much further must this go on?" but then said no more.

 

Angaráto followed him back to their quarters in silence, suddenly overwhelmed by everything that day.

 

"I am sorry," he told him, tugging on his robes to stop him.

 

Arafinwë glanced down at him. He looked weary. Angaráto wished he would lower to be at eye level, but his father did not oblige.

 

"I know you are," he said at last. "I heard you."

 

"No. About making you look bad."

 

Arafinwë smiled a sad smile. "That was not your doing. Court proceedings often take these turns. But your timely apology diffused the tensions. Well done." Angaráto swallowed, feeling utterly undeserving of his father's small praise. "I do hope this is the last time you ever hit anyone."

 

The boy hesitated. If it happened again, he would still hit Carnistir. Not as hard, maybe. But he still would. He had hit first, and had hurt the baby brother. His father sensed his reluctance and bent down to him, though in these circumstances Angaráto rather wished he did not. Arafinwë held him by the shoulders.

 

"It _will_ be the last time, Angaráto," he said, but the boy refused to meet his eyes.

 

"But I hate him! And he is evil. I will not hurt again him like I did, I won't. But if he hits me or Aikanáro, I will hit him back."

 

Disappointment. That was something Angaráto never wanted to see in his father's eyes, but there it was, plain and visible. He wondered if lying and promising would not have been easier.

 

"I want you to stay here and think about what you have done, about what you have heard today, and about what you have just said to me," Arafinwë said as he made him enter his bedroom. He sounded more sad than angry. In fact, he did not sound angry at all.

 

Angaráto complied for a moment, biting back some tears, and stared at the closed door. There was nothing to do in his room. He sat on his bed and looked down at his hands. What was he supposed to think? Stupid Carnistir.

 

He wondered where the baby brother was, and whether it would be acceptable to think with Aikanáro there. He peeked out of the door, but the halls were silent. Not even Findaráto was around.  Angaráto tiptoed to the nursery, where he found Aikanáro playing with some blocks. The baby squealed with delight when he saw him, and ran into his arms.

 

"Shh," Angaráto said as he hugged him fiercely. He did not want to get caught out of his room. "Come," he told him, "but shh."

 

"Shh," Aikanáro repeated, and pressed a finger to his lips.

 

Angaráto was on his way back to his room with the baby in tow when he heard his parents' voices coming out of their bedroom. His mother was back from her walk! They were speaking loud enough for him to hear. It was scary to think they might be talking about him, but his curiosity was too great. He went around a pillar and jumped on a ledge to listen. Aikanáro protested from the ground, and he had to haul him up there to have peace.

 

"It is Tirion," Arafinwë was saying. "It does this to people. Everyone is quarrelsome and petty. This is not what I want my children to learn."

 

"But what will you do? It would not do to disrupt Findaráto's studies. I could go back with the little ones, but would you stay with him in Tirion?"

 

"Not when the baby is still so young, Ambaráto still needs us both. Yet I cannot leave my eldest in this nest of vipers."

 

"Send him to Valmar, then. With your sister."

 

"Perhaps, though he does love it here. It was a mistake, Eärwen. Coming here was a mistake. We should have stayed in Alqualondë."

 

"How could you know? This is the best place for lore. The city of your birth."

 

"I knew," Arafinwë said sadly and then spoke no more.

 

Angaráto slid down from the ledge and helped Aikanáro down. He hurried back, but the baby was too slow, and when he walked into his room Arafinwë was already there with his arms crossed.

 

"You are impossible today," he said sternly.

 

Angaráto cowered, but Aikanáro walked up to their father and held his hands up, hoping to be picked up as if nothing were amiss. Arafinwë hesitated, but lifted him with a sigh. He was not as intimidating with the baby in his arms. Angaráto wondered if Aikanáro knew this. As it was, the baby kissed their father, who softened visibly.

 

Arafinwë lied down on Angaráto's bed, still holding the baby. It was too small for him, and his feet dangled off one end, but he curled up to fit somehow. Angaráto joined them silently, and did not resist when his father pulled him closer. Aikanáro snuggled against them.

 

"Sometimes," Arafinwë said softly, "when one is angry, it seems easier to hit back, or to shout back, or to hurt the ones who have hurt you. Does it not?"

 

Angaráto nodded vigorously. His father was speaking in Lindarin, and everything about him was unthreatening. He leaned closer to him, to rest against his warmth.

 

"But that is much too easy, and will only work in that moment. It will not make the fighting stop. The next time you are together, new grievances will be added onto the old ones, and no one would know when the hostility really began, nor who is in the right and who is in the wrong. What one must do is to try to understand why this person is acting like this. Do you understand? Why do you think Carnistir fights with you?"

 

Because he hates me, Angaráto thought, but knew he had to try harder. He thought for a long time, and Arafinwë did not rush him. He seemed to have all the time in Arda, and played with Aikanáro's hair. The baby loved it. Then Angaráto remembered the feast, and how Carnistir had stared at him and Findaráto, and the room full of toys but no one to play with.

 

"I think he is unhappy. And lonely."

 

"I think so too. And fighting back will not make these circumstances disappear."

 

The boy sighed. It was hard to feel any empathy for his cousin. "What should I do, then?"

 

"Walk away. Do not engage in fighting, but do not put up with his behaviour. Just walk away, and find your mother, or me, or your brother."

 

"What if he hits me first? Or hits Aikanáro?"

 

"Even if he hurts you or your brother first. Will you try to do that?"

 

"It's difficult..."

 

"I know it is. But you must try. Will you?"

 

Promising to try was not daunting. Angaráto nodded slowly, and Arafinwë let out a sigh. He seemed relieved, though still unhappy and weary. The boy touched his face gently, and his father smiled. It made him look younger, nearly merry. Aikanáro liked this too, and held their father tighter.

 

"How would you like to return to Alpalonde?"

 

Angaráto gasped. "Are we going home? At last! Then I may teach Aikanáro to swim. And to make castles. And we will sail. And find another fish friend. Are we really going?"

 

Arafinwë laughed and pulled him closer. "Yes, little one. We really are going home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience if you made it until here!!!


End file.
